


Oil Spills and Water Colours

by CockAsInTheBird



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Art Student Steve, I am literally blanking so hard right now, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, mechanic billy, slight age gap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:20:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27132394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CockAsInTheBird/pseuds/CockAsInTheBird
Summary: With an arts scholarship in one hand, his father's disapproval in the other, Steve now sits in yet another life figure drawing class in college, when today's willing subject steps into view, hair gold and skin sun-kissed, and immediately launches Steve's overactive imagination into something he'll possibly never recover from. Not even if he wanted to.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove & Steve Harrington, Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 21
Kudos: 168





	Oil Spills and Water Colours

**Author's Note:**

> I got an anon request a while ago, talking about Art Student Steve and Nude Model Billy, and while the idea spiralled quickly, it took me far too long to write, and now we're 11 pages deep!  
> I have more ideas, so so so many ideas, and this is only the beginning of it all

An arts scholarship is not something everyone can brag about, _well_ , almost everyone, or so Steve thought when he got approved for one after his high school teacher encouraged him to apply.

He’s not _dumb_ , or _unintelligent_ , as most people around him will say - the words on the pages just don’t connect right, as if he can’t see what any other person might perceive, and it is reflected on his grades. Math is… _fine_ , the only issue there is a general unwillingness to learn, because rather than doing algebra and figuring out trigonometry, Steve’s talents lie in the stroke of a brush, in the graphite of a pencil, in the black of charcoal.

His mother always encouraged him with a loving hand and a wondrous appreciation for every single little drawing Steve came up with as a child, fueling this intense fire inside of him that only felt relief against paper or canvas. She showered him in materials; endless chalk, a rainbow of watercolors, acrylics, oil pastels, pencils in all shapes and hues, stacks of papers, piles of canvas, even let him paint the walls of his bedroom as far as he could reach.

His father… simply stood and scowled in the doorway. He’s old fashioned, wanted an heir to the Harrington Construction Empire his own father built, not some… artistic little _fairy_. Steve stopped counting how many of his parents' fights were about him years ago.

And now he’s here, in California, attending _college_ of all things, surrounded by students who, just like him, have devoted their entire lives to the arts. He feels less _special_ , less _talented_ , amongst his peers, where it seems that a third of them have arrived on scholarships, too.

But his teacher, Mr Reynolds, an old man with a long goatee and suspenders, always assures Steve that he is, without a doubt, the star of the class. That he will go far in his life, become world renowned, famous for his works, that in the future art classes will teach about _his_ techniques and colors and _soul_.

Steve likes to believe it; spends his spare time thinking about what painting of his would be displayed in museums, what the critics will say, what he will wear to the reveal party, what his speech will sound like.

All those thoughts course through his overactive mind whenever he looks at a blank surface, just waiting, _begging_ to be filled with his inspired soul. Perhaps he’s a bit too immodest and vain and arrogant, but he doesn’t really put up a fight against those ideals; never bothered trying to be humble about what is so obvious to any eye, and when every teacher has never offered up anything besides praise, is he to believe they’re all liars?

He looks around at his classmates as they set up in the arranged circle surrounding a single stool in the middle. They all smile at him, greetings exchanged as always, the friendliness of people who you’ve had a few beers with, attended some parties and gatherings together, but never really gotten to know past the surface.

Steve’s just not as social as he used to be, and moving halfway across the country didn’t really help that either. Something changed in him during the last year of high school, but honestly he can’t complain. He goes whenever invited, otherwise he keeps to himself, focuses on his studies, does his homework, a scholarship can only get you so far, and if his grades dip too low, it’s bye bye future.

“All on time for once! Impressive!” Reynolds says with a cheery tone, clasping his hands together with a wide smile as he moves to the center of the classroom. “For today’s live figure drawing practice, we’ll continue working with models and volunteers from all parts of life, and today I’ve managed to convince a hard working, blue collar of a man! William Hargrove, you may take the stage!”

Everyone turns to the stained room divider over in a solitude corner, the usual spot where their models change in and out of clothes and robes, and from behind steps a man dressed in a dark gray bathrobe, adorned with the most gorgeous crown of golden curls, his stubble is scruffy with a more accentuated mustache, and his eyes are of the clearest blue waters Steve has ever seen before.

His breathing pauses for just a moment as he stares at the broad shouldered stranger, caught in a trance - a willing subject to be ensnared by this man’s confidence, walking like he owns the room. Steve doesn’t even realise that he’s staring till he’s met with those heavenly eyes.

Who then _winks_ at him, grin mischievous and _aware_ of what thoughts surge forth in his presence.

Steve’s heart beats like a drum, ramming against his ribs, a heated flush rushing up to tint his ears red, spilling into his cheeks. He can’t help but whip his head back towards his easel with a stare that could burn a hole in the pages before him, restraining himself from gawking further, trying to calm down some.

It’s not that he hasn’t paid attention to other guys in the past, it’s just that he hasn’t cared for that kind of stuff before. Even when he was dating Nancy back in high school he didn’t care _enough_. But now? This guy? This _man_? 

Nothing more than one simple, flirty look, and Steve’s interest tiptoes over the line of professional into _personal_ , dipping in, testing the waters there.

And when he reaches the middle of the circle, everyone here far too interested in seeing what he’s hiding beneath the robe, he slowly slips it off, clearly _revelling_ in all the attention if the smile he carries is any indication.

Unfortunately, much to Steve’s inconvenience, this William Hargrove is _ripped_. Jaw strong like a cliffside, biceps akin to perfectly carved marble, formidable pecs covered in chest hair lush like a forest that spreads down abs like rolling hills, Steve’s eyes travels smooth like a stream across the landscape of William’s body, down to his-

He refocuses on the easel in front of him, invitingly barren and pleading for him to ruin the stillness with his own _inappropriate curiosity._

“Thank you once again for agreeing to this, Mister Hargrove. You may use this stool here to pose with, or without, it is _entirely_ up to whatever you’re most comfortable with,” Reynolds explains, unhooking a thumb from where he fiddles with his suspenders to accept the robe that William has removed.

“Yes sir,” sounds the response, his voice husky and _charming_ , throaty from years of use.

It tugs further at Steve’s intrigue, oh to hear him laugh, read a book aloud, sing along to whatever reckless music he listens to, probably rock or something abrasive. Steve’s wild imagination goes through it all in the matter of seconds, just to be pulled back when his teacher speaks again,

“We’ll be taking things a bit slow today, six poses with 10 minutes each, let you all get a good feel for Mr Hargrove’s body, really _focus_ and _pay attention_ to how the shadows fall.”

Steve’s convinced the way he swallows hard must be audible, the lump in his throat making a loud splash in the pool of boiling nerves gathered in his stomach, breaking surface tension and stirring up thoughts he hasn’t really bothered with for months, if not a _year_ by now.

Yet here’s this stranger with such undeniable magnetism, taking a seat, naked on a stool, aiming straight at Steve, staring at Steve, _smirking_ at Steve.

Who nervously rakes fingers through his hair, pushing it back and away as to more clearly see his model, noticing how the muscles flex and tense as Hargrove decides on his first pose. The human body is _phenomenal_ to look at, nothing in the world deserves grander appreciation than it, and it’s easy for Steve to convince himself that that’s what this is, an accentuated form of gratitude for the very same shape that Michelangelo used for his David.

Finally William gets settled, on the edge of his seat, one foot on the ground, the other up on the bar between the legs of the stool, elbow raised and bent to bring a hand behind his head, the other relaxed on his thigh. Exposed and raw and muscular and _brilliant_.

Steve could truly go on and on and on about this Adonis posed all nude before him, face turned slightly to the side, but it is unquestionably clear that the rest of him is aimed directly at where Steve sits, and he doesn’t realise he’s staring again till Reynolds says,

“Ten minutes, everyone! You may begin!”

Steve grabs the first oil pastel he sees on his tray, a dark blue like the hidden depths of the sea, uncharted and foreign. The moment his fingertips connects with the greasy pen, everything else around him fades away; the only things to exist now is his motion against the large canvas-

And the naked shape of William Hargrove.

It comes out a bit sloppy, a bit _interrupted_ in a sense, messy lines spoiling the white, as if Steve’s mind is struggling with something too unfamiliar for him to just flat out ignore; a curiosity that is starved, craving to be discovered and filled. His focus lingers for too long on his model, and whenever he looks further up, he finds reason to always search for William's gaze - a peculiar urge to check and see if he’s still staring back.

He always is.

Those crystal clear eyes pinned to him something so intensely, that the heat beneath Steve’s collar seeps up his neck, blends with the consistent burning in his cheeks, blood boiling so vehemently that the girl next to him surely must be able to feel it, like a fireplace in the winter months. And when they lock gazes - Steve enchanted by what those eyes mean, what they’re telling him, whispering, _promising_ \- something in them changes; pupils dilate, lids slipping down a bit, the calm waters there now kicking up a storm, Steve nearly drops his stick when he feels a _jolt_ shoot through his body.

Once more he flees, like a cowardly servant before his mighty king, back to his drawing, switching from ocean deep to a shoreline; bright blue to praise the way light reflects off of sun-kissed skin, how lucky it is to touch the very embodiment of a Californian dream, how lucky Steve is to capture it.

“Fantastic, Steve!” Reynolds says from behind, effectively startling Steve back to reality with a little jump. “You’ve really managed to capture his… _manhood_.”

Everyone freezes, perhaps even time itself hears those words and decides to pause for a moment. All eyes are on Steve now, the teacher’s plaudit having piqued their interests to such an extent that the girls sitting on either side of Steve leans over, far too curious to see his _interpretation_ of what’s before them all. 

Steve hadn’t realised- didn’t _intend_ on drawing Hargrove’s… _manhood_ with such realism, yet here it is, a near picture perfect dick right in the middle of his page, thick and uncut, hanging between tremendous thighs. It’s as if his cock was the guest of honour, the main subject of this study, the rest of his image on the canvas faltering in detail compared.

There is nothing more desirous in Steve’s simple life right now, than to be sucked into a black hole and vanish, let the ground open up and swallow him completely.

He can’t help but notice how his neighbouring artists smile in a particular fashion, as if they know something Steve doesn’t, even if it’s staring right at him, even if he drew it himself, which he _apparently_ did. And when he looks up at his model, there’s a certain grin there too, humoured and flattered and _teasing_ in the way the corners curl up.

As everyone else returns to their own creations, Steve leans back a bit to look at his. Time doesn’t exist in his mindspace when he first gets going, hours fly by like it was barely even ten minutes, and who knows how long he spent on just… _emphasising_ this very specific _limb_. Detail fades the further away it gets; his face barely anything more than a few necessary strokes, curls scarcely drawn, no feet - legs ending halfway down the shins.

But his _goddamn_ , _fucking… dick_ is right there, clear as day, yep.

Steve sighs, slumps a bit and rubs his forehead, streaks of blue smudging out over a rather irresolute mind, dragging it into his dark hair. A cold shower would do him good right about now, or a cup of coffee, anything to revitalise his mind - recenter him at the task at hand.

With a few more deep breaths, he looks up again, fighting the urge to meet those baby blues he _knows_ are staring at him; he can _feel_ them burn against his skin, keeping his blood at a fever point.

It’s a struggle that constantly feels like a losing battle, but Steve manages to map out William’s face in the end; that strong jaw, his rounded nose, piercing eyes, and those perfect curls hanging loose.

Steve finds himself oddly _eager_ to start all over, draw Hargrove again in the next pose, rolling the dark pastel between his fingers as he admires his own art. With a tentative touch, he runs the stick along the lines of William’s jaw again, thickening the edge there, following the curve down his neck, his shoulder, bicep. 

Gorgeous and handsome and _strong_.

“That’s 10 minutes! Mister Hargrove, a new pose, if you will?” 

And Mister Hargrove nods, smiling, looking at Reynolds as he speaks, then back to Steve as he changes position to the rhythm of flipping pages, the painters surrounding him finding a fresh and eager emptiness before them now.

William brings up both heels onto the bar, places an elbow on his thigh, chin and mouth resting against his hand, and-

Steve fights to suppress his smile. It would be impossible for him to be the only person in the room to recognise the pose of The Thinker, and if the cheesy grin on his model’s face would say anything, it’d be that he is very aware of what he’s doing, as he poses with the exact likeness of that very famous statue.

It almost seems _practiced to perfection_.

Their eyes meet, and once again William _winks_ , bringing the same heat to Steve’s usually pale complexion, but rather than shy away, this time he cocks a brow and huffs an incredulous laugh.

For the next ten minutes, Steve keeps his focus in check. Clear skies observe him, muscular thighs spread in his direction, but he keeps his strokes gentle and certain, decisive, _confident_ , paying well deserved attention to every curve of muscle, twirl of golden spun hair, eyes revealing more than they should. 

Yet finds himself reluctant whenever he goes too far south, fighting a strange compulsion to once more draw out Hargrove’s girthy cock, and he grips the pastel tighter as the mere _idea_ of _it_ gives life to his own dick, having been near celibate for far too long. So he keeps it to the bare essentials this time and hopes that no one will comment on the _lack_ of detail now, that it won’t be too obvious how he’s _actively avoiding_ it.

Time passes and his model stands up, handing the stool to Reynolds, then posing with his back to Steve, one hand raised, arm extended as if he’s holding something up, staring at it with such a serious expression, brows drawn and lips parted, offering up the perfect profile, and Steve feels restless in his fingers, eyes wide as he admires the dramatic pose, a voice in his mind that goes,

“To be or not to be, that is the question.”

And wonders if this, too, is purposeful in its manner to mock, but Steve still finds it more amusing than anything else.

He stays mostly above waist this time, stealing only quick glances at the perfectly sculpted ass served right before his very eyes, firm and put, and why is there no tan lines to be seen anywhere on his body at all? William Hargrove looks like he lives under the sun, like he’s beloved by its shine and joy and heat, yet his skin is bronze all over, like a sculpture erected purely by affection alone.

Just when he had finally started to cool down, the feverish pitch falling, a thought bares itself, a daring one that he really shouldn’t have about today’s subject, but it doesn’t come as a surprise either.

Does Hargrove sunbathe in the nude?

He must, is the conclusion, yet Steve is biased, for he can’t even spend an hour on the beach without going lobster red, no matter how much sunscreen he applies.

His mind definitely lingers there for too long, as his eyes stay low as well, phased out and staring blankly, unaware of how this might look to anyone catching him in this act. A saving grace comes with the sound of a crayon being dropped somewhere in the room, Steve snapping back to attention at it, having drifted far off to sea.

With a few rapid blinks he’s drawing again; heart and hand notably calm, gently caressing where he has detailed William’s back, softening the shadows of strong muscles with the pads of his fingers. While Steve is not at all self-conscious about his own body, he does feel _lesser_ when admiring his model - a man of hard work and weight lifting, whereas Steve has grown a bit... _soft_ after high school, not finding time to keep up his muscle definition, and he never really had an interest in sports either.

He sits up straighter, chest pushed out as he takes a deep breath. The tip of the pastel skates along the line of Hargrove’s raised arm to where the hand holds nothing, and Steve is far too tempted to sketch out a skull in William’s grasp, the corners of his mouth quirking up at that thought.

“Excellent work everyone! Mister Hargrove, do you need a break or perhaps something to drink?” Reynolds asks from where he now sits on the stool, outside of the circle.

“No thank you, sir, I’m just getting warmed up,” William says, all alluring and suave as he rolls his shoulder.

“How diligent!” the teacher chimes, “Okay then, whenever you’re ready again.”

And so the model turns his side to Steve, bends over a bit, arm reaching behind, twisting his torso, flexing his knee and… he’s doing it again.

Immediately, from years of casual study and an interest that runs deeper than childhood memories, Steve recognises the pose of Discobolus of Myron. So obvious and unabashed, bringing out yet another smile that embarrasses Steve endlessly; that he can’t keep his cool here does not bode well for his future as an artist.

For no one else around him seems to react the same as he.

Hargrove angles his head out of form, betraying the original posture of gazing down towards the discus, all for the sake of looking right at Steve, smiling with a raised brow, so _knowing_ yet still seeking some form of approval from the painter himself.

Steve might be rusty in the art of socialising, but he absolutely takes notice of his model’s attempts to, perchance, _woo him_ , like a bird flashing its colourful wings to a prospective mate. Never mind the fact that he might just be making this whole song and dance up in his excitable imagination; at least it _feels_ real enough to him, and for the next half hour, he can live with it being just that.

So he’s convinced of, at least, as he watches the impressive endurance portrayed here by William Hargrove - that he can keep this bent forward pose for a whole ten minutes, when Steve needs to shuffle and rearrange his legs every two minutes, a restless sleeper, not exactly fidgety, nor ever truly at peace. It’s not an active annoyance in his life, something he never considers till he’s met with people opposite of it.

Most of the models they have had the pleasure of sketching out were stock still, only movement the occasional blinking and necessary breathing, but there’s something about Hargrove that makes Steve measure himself up to par, giving cause to introspection. Something about this stranger has an abundance of food for thought, and before he knows it, Steve’s spent another ten minutes mindlessly outlining the muscular performance before him, when his model shifts and changes at the request for a new pose by Reynolds.

“How clean is your floor?” William asks, looking at the teacher.

“Pristine!” comes the response from Reynolds, although Steve would doubt that.

Yet there are no complaints or objections by any one student, as the golden sun they all orbit around lays down in the middle of the studio, raised up on an elbow, one knee bent; allowing an arm to drape over it.

As the silence fills with low scratching of pencils dedicating their worth to Hargrove’s image, Steve lingers in his presence instead, tilts his head as he _wonders_ what it would be like to lie there next to this man he’s only known the existence of for 40 minutes or so. Is he burning hot with a fiery passion trapped inside him? Does he smell like a sea breeze or is he musky with sweat? How calloused and rough must his hands be? Is his glorious mane as soft and luscious as it looks? Would his kiss be gentle and sweet or harsh and ravenous?

“Are you okay, Steve?” From seemingly out of nowhere, Reynolds stands behind Steve, leaning down to look at him over his shoulder. “You’re not drawing.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m just… a bit mindless, I guess,” Steve chuckles lightly and runs a blue hand through his hair.

“You’re not getting sick, are you? You look a bit flushed,” his teacher asks with actual concern to his tone.

The smile that twitches forth for only a short second on William’s face isn’t lost on Steve, who then squeezes his eyes shut tight, as if it’d wash away such vivid imagery.

“No, I’m- I’m just… tired, is all. Didn’t get enough sleep last night, I guess,” he tries for an excuse.

“Why don’t you sit this one out? Take a break and come back strong on the last one!” Reynolds pats Steve on the shoulders and gives him a light shake, earning a smile and a huff.

“Thank you, sir, I will.”

“I know you will!” Another encouraging pat on the back, and the teacher wanders off again, towards the next student.

Steve looks down upon his hands, tinted blue, dark and light mixing like morning in the horizon, washing down his palm, barely stretching for his wrist as fingers paint the way with stained pads. He rubs the skin there, creating a glove-like illusion of heavenly hues on his left hand, as if he has dipped it in the sky above.

But distractions only go so far, when his mind returns and he looks back up at the agent of his disturbance, unsure of whether or not it is an unwelcome one. What is it about this particular stranger that is so much more alluring than all the others they’ve faced before? Is it wrong that he wants to find the answer to this mystification? Soon William will walk out the doors, never to be seen again most likely, but is Steve brave enough to interfere with that?

He feels so impossibly drawn to this man, like a comet pulled in by gravity, burning up in his atmosphere, becoming nothing more than another brief shooting star in his presence.

A sigh escapes exasperated lips, too many questions, too many wonderings, _no_ , it will be far easier if he just takes a deep breath, stop picking his nails clean of grime, and brings his focus on Hargrove to a more material level; a more objective one. An artist and his inspiration.

Draw now, and save all the pathetic yearning for later, in bed, under the covers, alone.

Steve scoffs at it all and mentally rolls his eyes, so humoured by the fact that he was willing to jump headfirst into all of this, all of _him_ , _William Hargrove_ , when there’s truly no good reason to believe it could go anywhere past his own - _apparently perverted_ \- imagination. A smile and a wink is no invitation to anything more than dreaming.

Reynolds says something along the lines of, “Last pose,” Steve isn’t listening, too busy erasing the last 50 minutes worth of interest, when his model stands back up.

Dusts off his legs from the ‘not _that_ clean floor’, straightens his back, body turned once more towards Steve - whose eyes shoot up at a blank spot on the opposite wall to avoid looking where he desires the most, only to then _reluctantly_ look at how Hargrove poses, and Steve is immediately pulled down under again, his head fuzzy like a peach from going back and forth between _no_ and _yes_ , as he sees an immaculate reimagination of Michelangelo’s David.

William leans with his weight on one leg, the other forward, broad fingers grazing the outside of a firm thigh, his left hand raised, head turned to the side with his gaze turned toward Rome. Sure he’s seemingly stronger, or at least more _muscular_ , than the original David, Steve notes as his mouth runs dry, possibly from gaping too much.

The shape that forms on the canvas is one of marvel, not just for the human body, but for _Hargrove’s body_ , betraying the inner most longings of Steve’s lustrous mind, and after nearly an hour of introspection, it can’t be helped for him to become aware of it all as well. Unprofessional, skeevy, disreputable. But oh so _wanted_. Perhaps come the future he’ll refrain from painting the male anatomy, have his creations pure and unsullied, because even if the Greeks could freely shape their apparent sexualities in marble, it is not a subject of admiration now.

But, as a student, it might be acceptable for him to not be entirely too professional in his intent, Steve thinks, as he pauses to decide whether he should draw out a fig leaf over William’s… _manhood_ , or if he should be brazen once more and just give it the attention _it deserves_. He was praised for it earlier, so why not now as well? As it is decidedly so, Steve’s heart could beat him deaf, throbbing like you’d think a heart attack would feel, pulsating vividly through him as he settles on letting himself have _some artistic freedom_.

And as the wondrous shape stands there, fully fledged on his canvas, a perfect depiction of all that Hargrove is, Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. This is going to haunt him, he just knows it, every thought of it so lucid in his mind, so alive through his body, he struggles to not _groan_ at the persistence of this idolisation. He wanders erratically between yes and no, yes and no, _yes_ and… _no_. They could write endless odes to his indecision. 

Reynolds clapping rightfully startles Steve awake from his inner turmoil, and he blinks into realisation that he once again wandered too deep into the guideless woods of his own mind - it’s a wonder he can even get passing grades when his consciousness is never where it _should_ be.

“Tremendous work today, everyone!” Reynolds declares, proud as a mother hen, always the kind and encouraging spirit in the room. “Take your sketches home with you, stare at them, agonize over every little detail, and suss out what you could possibly do better! Find resolve in the imperfections of your work!”

Steve looks at his, stares at the toned muscles, the shadows, the curves. It is ardently clear to him that he will be spending far too many hours agonizing over this… this… perfected deviance. Everyone around him packs up their pencils and crayons and oils, rolls up their pages and aims for the door, all the while Steve lingers here, staring and staring and staring at the closely detailed face, then up at where William stays in the middle of it all, now dressed in a robe again, having been approached by two girls from class to undoubtedly praise his _form_ and _patience_.

He smiles all charming and toothy, talking inaudibly, nodding and running a hand through his hair.

All of it ignites underneath Steve’s skin, boiling his blood in a sense that could be considered _jealousy_ , perhaps. At least that’s how Steve recognises it. He runs a hand through his hair, then both down over his face, rubbing the skin there, exhausted and tired from having let his mind run a whole marathon today.

A cup of coffee would do him good right about now, go home and relieve himself of some of those idiotic daydreams he’s been _suffering_ through for the last hour, spending the rest of the day alone might just be exactly what he needs, or so his thoughts goes as he packs up all the blues.

“I appreciate the realism and your attention to _every_ detail,” a voice says.

Steve’s eyes blow up, an icky and cold sensation rushes through him to stir his stomach something so sickly, as he looks up to find William to his right, grinning wide as he admires the portrait of himself.

“ _Oh…_ ” is all Steve can lightly mutter, gaze rushing between the man on the paper, a dream and a wish, and to the truest form of it in flesh and bone and body heat standing so close his cologne can be nearly _tasted_ , so _overwhelming_ and _powerful_ and kinda _excessive_.

“And your choice of colors seems almost… _inspired_ ,” William’s tone drops low, enchanting to the weakened state of Steve, voice so full of _intent_. “Most everyone in here used black, but you… you used _blue_.”

Eyes like the ocean meets with honey drizzled almond, and while Steve wouldn’t be surprised to find out that this encounter is simply a fabrication of his touch starved soul, he doesn’t shy away from how Hargrove seems to be searching for something.

“Call me Billy,” he eventually says and offers a hand.

“Steve,” comes a stunned reply, and the artist shakes the model’s hand, who in turn looks at how his tanned skin has been stained blue now.

“O-oh! Sorry, I- uh- I didn’t- _sorry_ ,” Steve apologises _profusely_ , the embarrassed heat mixing with that of unnecessary excitement and nerves enough to put the sun to shame. “Sorry sorry sorry.”

He yanks free a rag from his satchel, and with shaky hands grabs onto William- _Billy’s_ hand to try and clean it up the best he can without water or soap, only to truly make it all worse by rubbing with both hands now.

Yet Billy doesn’t pull away from the touch, simply chuckles lightly and stands still, watching the whole debacle unfold. “It’s ok, really, I’m used to getting my hands dirty; working as a mechanic and all.”

Steve offers a slight smile at that, too worried everything will be impossibly obvious if he were to meet eyes with the other, unsure of how to respond, or rather _what to respond with_ that wouldn’t be nothing but shameful ramblings of an overeager heart.

Yes soap and a scalding hot shower would help. Or perhaps an ice cold one to _cool down_ whatever Steve is imagining happening right here and now. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s been so lost in a daydream without realising it’s not real, and it won’t be the last. But this one _feels_ real, warm and heavy in his hands as he goes from trying to clean the skin to _caressing it_ , so maybe he’ll indulge a bit. Again.

Billy stays- Billy _lets him_ _touch him_ , Steve lost in a whirlwind of _what if’s_ , only to be awoken when Billy rasps out-

“ _Wanna go get coffee?”_


End file.
